Now, with extended arms, rowing his way, And now, with sunward face, he floating lies; Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns, Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand : Blithe days of jocund youth, now almost flown! Meantime, far up the windings of the stream, Where o'er the narrow'd course the hazels meet, The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh, The bushes hung with beauty's white attire, Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach. Unhappy he, who, in this season, pent Within the darksome gloom of city lane, Pines for the flowery paths and woody shades, From which the love of lucre or of power Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns The rich descriptive page of Thomson's Muse, And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes Are present so the hand of childhood tries
Το grasp the pictured bunch of fruit or flowers, But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth : So the caged lark, upon a withering turf, Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings, As if in act of mounting to the skies.
At noontide hour, from school, the little throng Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamell'd mead. Some strive to catch the bloom-perch'd butterfly, And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower From which he flies the disappointment soothes. Others, so pale in look, in tatter'd garb, Motley with half-spun threads and cotton flakes, Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile, Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear, Confused: there, prison'd close, they wretched moil.
Sweet age, perverted from its proper end! When childhood toils, the field should be the scene- To tend the sheep, or drive the herd a-field, Or, from the corn-fields, scare the pilfering rooks, Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield Το pamper the monopolising few:
'Twill make a wealthy, but a wretched state. Bless'd be the generous band that would restore To honour due the long-neglected plough! From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health: Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships Deep-fraught with blood!
But let me quit such themes, and, peaceful, roam The winding glen, where now the wild rose pale, And garish broom, strew with their fading flowers The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet The greenwood path, half-hid 'neath brake and brier, Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me The daisied plat before the cottage door Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
FAREWELL, Sweet Summer, and thy fading flowers! Farewell, sweet Summer, and thy woodland songs ! No woodland note is heard, save where the hawk, High from her eyrie, skims in circling flight, With all her clamorous young, first venturing forth On untried wing: at distance far, the sound Alarms the barn-door flock; the fearful dam
Calls in her brood beneath her ruffling plumes; With crowding feet they stand, and frequent peep Through the half-open'd wing. The partridge quakes Among the rustling corn. Ye gentle tribes, Think not your deadliest foe is now at hand. To man, bird, beast, man is the deadliest foe; 'Tis he who wages universal war.
Soon as his murderous law gives leave to wound The heathfowl, dweller on the mountain wild, The sportsman, anxious, watching for the dawn, Lies turning, while his dog, in happy dreams, With feeble bark anticipates the day.
Some, ere the dawn steals o'er the deep-blue lake, The hill ascend: vain is their eager haste; The dog's quick breath is heard panting around, But neither dog nor springing game is seen Amid the floating mist; short interval Of respite to the trembling dewy wing. Ah! many a bleeding wing, ere mid-day hour, Shall vainly flap the purple bending heath. Fatigued, at noon, the spoiler seeks the shade Of some lone oak, fast by the rocky stream, The hunter's rest, in days of other years, When sad the voice of Cona, in the gale, Lamentingly the song of Selma sung.
How changeful, Caledonia, is thy clime! Where is the sunbeam that but now so bright Play'd on the dimpling brook? Dark o'er the heath A deepening gloom is hung; from clouds high piled On clouds the sudden flash glances; the thunder Rolls far, reverberated 'mong the cliffs; Nor pause; but ere the echo of one peal Has ceased, another, louder still, the ear appals. The sporting lamb hastes to its mother's side;
The shepherd stoops into the mountain-cave, At every momentary flash illumed
Back to its innermost recess, where gleams The vaulted spar; the eagle, sudden smote, Falls to the ground lifeless; beneath the wave The sea-fowl plunges; fast the rain descends; The whiten'd streams, from every mountain side, Rush to the valley, tinging far the lake.
GRADUAL the woods their varied tints assume; The hawthorn reddens, and the rowan-tree Displays its ruby clusters, seeming sweet, Yet harsh, disfiguring the fairest face.
At sultry hour of noon, the reaper band Rest from their toil, and in the lusty stook Their sickles hang. Around their simple fare, Upon the stubble spread, blithesome they form A circling group, while humbly waits behind The wistful dog, and with expressive look, And pawing foot, implores his little share.
The short repast, season'd with simple mirth, And not without the song, gives place to sleep. With sheaf beneath his head, the rustic youth Enjoys sweet slumbers, while the maid he loves Steals to his side, and screens him from the sun. But not by day alone the reapers toil : Oft in the moon's pale ray the sickle gleams, And heaps the dewy sheaf; thy changeful sky, Poor Scotland! warns to seize the hour serene.
The gleaners, wandering with the morning ray, Spread o'er the new-reap'd field. Tottering old age And lisping infancy are there, and she
Who better days has seen.
The covey finds; but, hark! the murderous tube. Exultingly the deep-mouth'd spaniel bears The fluttering victim to his master's foot: Perhaps another, wounded, flying far Eludes the eager following eye, and drops Among the lonely furze to pine and die.
WITH hound and horn, o'er moor and hill and dale, The chase sweeps on; no obstacle they heed, Nor hedge, nor ditch, nor wood, nor river wide. The clamorous pack rush rapid down the vale, Whilst o'er yon brushwood tops, at times, are seen The moving branches of the victim stag: Soon far beyond he stretches o'er the plain. Oh, may he safe elude the savage rout, And may the woods be left to peace again!
Hushed are the faded woods; no bird is heard,
Save where the redbreast mourns the falling leaf. At close of shorten'd day, the reaper, tired, With sickle on his shoulder, homeward hies:
Night comes with threatening storm, first whispering low, Sighing amid the boughs; then, by degrees, With violence redoubled at each pause,
Furious it rages, scaring startled sleep.
The river roars. Long-wish'd, at last the dawn, Doubtful, peeps forth; the winds are hush'd, and sleep Lights on the eyes unsullied with a tear;
Nor flies, but at the ploughboy's whistle blithe, Or hunter's horn, or sound of hedger's bill.
Placid the sun shoots through the half-stripp'd grove; The grove's sere leaves float down the dusky flood.
The happy schoolboy, whom the swollen streams,
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